


Of Educational Value

by Dissipating_Mango



Category: Invader Zim
Genre: Crying, Dib justifies his horrible actions with a hint of guilt: the fic, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, POV Second Person, Tranquilizers, Zim is drugged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22162045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dissipating_Mango/pseuds/Dissipating_Mango
Summary: You have an hour to do with his body as you please. A lifetime to think about what you will have done.
Relationships: Dib/Zim (Invader Zim)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 164





	Of Educational Value

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure you've read the tags but once again, final warning here, there are non consensual sexual acts on a drugged character in this story. Feel free to skip this one, it's pretty dark

Your hands feel clammy. Uncomfortable. You're sure it's not nearly as uncomfortable as he will feel on waking up.

Your boots, with their hard but worn soles, hit the ground in short clicks and suddenly, his face is under your hand. Such smooth skin. Untarnished. Once upon a time, he mentioned the healing properties of his PAK allowing for such invisible recovery. But even the most advanced machine in the universe can't un-anesthese a body dosed with enough tranquilizer to take down a creature ten times it's size. 

You didn't mean to, of course. He thought you were bluffing, laughed at the syringe in your hand and begged you to stick him. Your own grin was visible in the reflection of his terrified eyes.

It was his fault for pulling away too slowly. 

  
His breathing is coming in weak, but steady. Small miracles, as his computer had an override function just for situations such as these; situations where he was incapacitated and you were available. Code 492. The computer informed you the drugs will be processed out of his body in an hour. You don't know why he trusts you so much. He should really know better by now.

His skin is so soft. 

Your hands find their way to his mouth and push back his lips, showing the blunt pink teeth underneath. They line like a zipper when closed, a sight you have come to grow fond of in it's familiarity. It doesn't take much to open his jaw and poke about inside. His tongue is smooth; rolled up like a butterfly's proboscis. You can't help but wonder just how long it is and start to unravel the length until about ten inches of muscle is revealed, pinched between your fingers. It's not like you'll have another chance to explore his anatomy so freely. 

You push the guilt back, letting a fierce hunger take its place. The need is vague but the actions are lucid. 

  
You're peeling back his eyelids now, not enough to hurt, but enough to stare into the unfocused pools of pink. Up close, you notice how they sparkle, the light pirouetting over his corneas in a breathtaking display. Cosmic. His eyes have galaxies in them. He's made of stardust in the same way you are made of ashes.

Fingers trailing up again, you stroke an antenna and smile, just a little, at the way it flicks like a dog's ear when first touched. Involuntary. You continue to stroke it lightly and in a strange display, notice the way his legs seem to part for you. That too, looked involuntary. 

  
He's not completely awake, but he isn't entirely asleep either; more dormant than unconscious. He won't remember this, you know that. You have an hour to do with his body as you please. A lifetime to think about what you will have done. 

It's curiosity, you tell yourself. Purely scientific interest. No longer are your movements clear and crisp; your arms wade through the air as if you were deep underwater, heartbeat heavy in your ears. You know in some way this is wrong by how you hesitate and linger. Research, you remind yourself. Shake it off. Science doesn't care about feelings and your hunger for knowledge gnaws away at your reluctance until only zealousness remains. You tie a rope around the neck of your conscience and whistle. 

He isn't a person anyway. It's not worth the debate. 

  
His tunic is waxy and stretchy and you shove it up with ease, baring his midriff and drinking up the display. The bare green flesh is enough to make your pulse quicken, and somewhere in the pit of your stomach, rotting from the inside out, is a horrible decay of shame. You feel nauseated. Aroused. 

In control. 

Your hands can wrap around his waist with room to spare, overlapping fingers reminding you of his small size in a visceral way you hadn't felt before. It was so _easy_ to do this to him. Underneath his horrifying technology and boastful presentation, was a scared, tiny little creature. A dissection of him; an opening of his heart for your eyes only. Violation was a strong word. You are feeling strong emotions. 

His leggings slide down easy. Quick. Smooth rubbery latex on silky skin providing no friction. Popping his boots off, you bring his pants to the floor and gently part slender legs. It's for research. You know what this looks like and that shame is dry branches in a wildfire. 

Soon enough, your hands are rubbing his antenna once again. With ardent purpose, each stroke quakes his legs; it's a beautiful sight to behold. He's making little noises now, almost egging you on, though even if he wanted, there's no way he could stop you. 

Always assuming it was merely a figure of speech, hot under the collar had never been as accurate as it was right now. Blood boils and writhes under your skin, rushing to places it shouldn't. 

He won't remember, you tell yourself. You will, but he won't. Fingers drag over the thin slit between his legs and little gasps are your reward. He's never been touched here before, not that you know of. And you know everything about him. 

He won't remember. It's all in the the name of science, in the spirit of investigation. For the greater good. For humanity. There's so many reasons to do it, and barely one not to. If you split yourself in two and spoke to your other half, you could scoff at your own argument. 

Who would deserve this more than a heartless alien colonizer?

  
Maybe heartless wasn't entirely accurate. You know he wouldn't do this to you. In fact, there's a good chance had your positions been reversed he would've fretted over your still body, wiping away sweat and drool like it didn't burn to touch. Your nails dig harsh cresecents into your palm as do your teeth into your cheek. If you're the good guy, why does he always make you feel so wrong? 

And God, do you feel wrong right now. Kneeling on cold purple tile, hand on his unmentionables, the other steadying his middle. He's making little mewls and pressing into your fingers, but it's not because he wants it. It's instinct. 

He's submitted to you before, though not nearly this obviously. Made himself smaller in your presence, followed your orders automatically before remembering. Sometimes he goes limp in your grasp for unclear reasons. Lately, he's been mumbling under his breath after you walk away. A mantra, perhaps, some form of practiced speech. A whimpering plea breaks the rigid silence. 

  
"My Tallest...?" 

  
Your hand had pulled away during your stream of thoughts, and clearly, he had missed it's presence. 

Your voice is throaty and low. "What did you call me?" 

"M-my Tallest, you haven't finished..." 

He must be delirious. His brain was probably confusing past memories with murky reality. Yet still, you wonder what sex means for his people. 

"Do you know my name?" It's unlikely, but the idea that perhaps he still knew who you were, still had some level of awareness who was touching him, burned a low red heat in your body. 

"My Tallest..." 

"My name Zim, who am I?" You whisper, sliding your fingers just inside his thigh, ghosting over his slit. A few blinks of his eyes and he squints, unsure of his answer. 

"D-Dib...?"

"That's right..." Slick fluid is staining your skin pink like strawberry flesh under your fingernails. "Do you know what Dib is doing to you?" 

He mumbles chirpy, clicky noises. Spreads his legs further and groans when you reach the last knuckle of your finger. Just this seems to approach his limit. Would he even be able to fit much more than that? 

"You're... gonna breed me," he sighs. Was this an inevitability? Did he always know this would happen? Did he want this to happen? 

"Have you been bred before Zim?" Another digit threatens to penetrate, and you rub at the small wriggly appendage that has extracted itself from his body. About the length of your hand, his phallus wraps around your thumb.

"Zim is a good Irken..." 

That didn't answer your question. He's a primary source and this is a study; he needs to start answering before you start hypothesizing. Before you start experimenting. 

Two fingers has him squirming now. The sound of your zipper cuts the air as you try to take some of the pressure off.

"I love My Tallest..." 

"Have you been bred? Has your Tallest bred you?" 

He hums a confused noise and squints before closing his eyes again. He fades out of awareness and you've never been more disappointed to hear him silent in your life. 

A quick smack on his thigh jolts him back awake. 

"Who is your Tallest?" 

"Tallest." He echoes. "I love my Tallest..." 

  
Why does that piss you off so much? Your fingers are rough inside him, but that's on purpose. The stimuli should keep him awake, and you want him awake. Now that you've had a taste, it's not nearly as fun to hear him quiet down again. Besides, he has to be awake for more questions. This is for research. 

"How much do you love your Tallest?" You don't want to hear it, but you do. You want to hear what total devotion sounds like spilling from his lips. You want to see the part of him eager to please. You want to gulp his vulnerability and swim in it's depths. It's white hot under your clothes.

"I would do anything for My Tallest." 

"Anything?" Your fingers draw out slowly, his length providing only a small amount of difficulty when it refuses to unwrap. A quick pinch has it retreating and wriggling between his thighs. 

"What if it hurt you?" 

"Hurt...?" He's fading out again, eyes turning unfocused. Fuck, he's not allowed to do that. You want to take him while he's awake. You want to see his eyes light up, or maybe you want to see them dim, but the blurry need inside you has your heart pounding. Nails dig into his hips and you wait. You can wait for however long it's going to take, but until he's blinking and groaning and speaking again, you'll be sitting right here. 

Pants shoved down, you almost don't want to touch yourself. Almost. 

He looks so fucking pathetic laying in front of you like this. Legs spread, pink dripping from his slit, _oh God_ it's too much. A sharp exhale when you thrust into your own fist. Feral, like you're a animal. Oh he thinks of you that way, and you're about to prove him right. You are going to drag him down to your level and show him just what filthy animals do. 

Your mind is playing with you, flashing images behind your eyes like notes slipped under your bedroom door. You want to mark him, claim him. You want to cum on him. It's dirty and it's vulgar and it's making you gasp. There's something about the visual there, tainting him in such an obvious way. Your hand stops, worrying it might become a reality before it's time. He needs to wake up right now. 

Scrapes along his skin have him stirring, and at this point that might just be good enough. You need the responses, the little struggles, the soft noises. 

"Zim..." His antennae feel delicate. You're tugging way too hard on fragile parts. He's blinking again. 

"Look at me Zim, look at me." 

He's not looking. In fact, he is intentionally avoiding your gaze now, slowly coming to, and starting to put the pieces together. When he finally looks at you, your heart stops. 

"Dib?" 

Your name in his mouth is delicious and has you by the throat. Already on top of him, you press harder, cock right against his slit. 

"What are you-" 

Cut off. You can't wait any longer. The first push beyond the threshold has both of you keening and you wonder if this is the closest you will ever come to heaven. 

"DIB!" 

You don't know what he's feeling and frankly, you don't want to know. All you know is he's screaming your name and it's wonderful, absolutely wonderful. 

  
Until he keeps screaming.

"Shhh, Zim you're okay, you're okay, it's just me, it's just Dib..." 

Why that would be comforting you have no idea, and how that managed to work in any way is beyond you. But it has him complying, and that's what matters. Does he still trust you? 

"You're doing great, stay still for me..." 

Tears in his eyes. He's shaking under your grasp, on the verge of sobbing. 

He's so tight and warm, it's magical. You've never felt this euphoric in your life. Mouth open yet silent, you want to reassure him you'll be gentle, but in the moment, you aren't sure if that's the truth. Everything is far too intense and cloudy. You look down at him, at wet streaks on his cheeks. He, isn't enjoying this. 

Does that matter? 

Should it matter? 

  
The cold hard axe of lust decapitates your moral compass in one fell swoop. He feels so good. 

"H-Hurts..." 

You suspect he's still muttering for you to stop but honestly, you're tuning it out. There is no place for sympathy here. This is for research. He isn't going to remember. He's a murderer, a colonist, a conquerer. He's an alien. You don't have to feel bad for him, you _shouldn't_ feel bad for him. You're taking what's rightfully yours. Knowledge. Power. You want the upper hand and if it takes underhanded moves to get there so be it. The ends justify the means, don't they? 

You want to kiss him, so you do. You can tell he hates it by the way his tongue fights and flinches away but with enough persistence, you get it timidly wrapping around yours. His lips are soft, reminding you of the smooth icing Gaz had on her last birthday cake. You pull his bottom lip between your teeth and bite hard, guzzling his whimpers and tonguing blood. Not quite metallic, he tastes like fresh cut pine. 

"I always knew I'd be inside you one day Zim, but this is better than I ever hoped..." 

Faster. 

"You look so good like this. You look so good under me." 

His arms are limp, bouncing to your rhythm. 

"Do you love me?" 

You can't fathom where the words you whispered came from, except maybe they tumbled out thinking of his earlier devotion. His eyes slam shut, tears trickling out. His voice is hardly more then a gasp. 

"I- love My Tallest." 

"No you don't." 

Garbled words run past his teeth as tears you can tell he hopelessly wants to scrub away, fall. Wet agony, sweet like peaches on your tongue, you dry his face with a lick. 

"You're mine." A quick bite into his neck for emphasis and you melt at his jitters. "You belong to me." 

"Zim belongs to the Tallest." He almost seems lucid, but his blurry eyes give him away. "My Tallest love me." 

"They sent you away Zim, how can they love you if you're on Earth? Nobody loves you." You take his tentacle into your hand in spite, or maybe because of, your last sentence. 

"You could die and no one would care." 

  
That's a lie. The thought of him dying sends a cold chill down your spine and crystalizes in your lungs like coolant. You grab him a little closer, absolutely because of your last sentence. He's hot and crying and shivering and clawing but not dying, never dying. He can't die. Not until you've learned everything you need to know about him. Not until you've revealed his existence to the public. Not until you've fucked him so hard he knows who he belongs to. 

He has to belong to you. You're nothing without him. 

He's fading out again. The drugs are still working evidently, which is good because he came a little too close to sober for your liking. Not that you care if you hurt him. He deserves it. He lost. But the less he recalls of this, the better. This is for research. And you're going to need multiple trials. You don't want an unexpected variable getting in the way of that. 

God he's tight. You love the way his length squirms against your belly and presses into your touches, pink wetness coating your shirt. It's bizarre and completely inhuman and it's amazing. You'd love to put your mouth on it someday, but that's not feasible in the present. Not with the feverish pleasure running through your veins so close to it's culmination. 

His insides are a fire you never want to leave. Like he was made for this. Handcrafted to be fucked by you. Zim was made for you. 

His overstretched entrance clenches around you. The penultimate seconds before ecstasy have never felt quite so thrilling. You shudder and press into him hard, deep. Your earlier fantasies are no match to the rhapsody that is coming inside him. Claiming him somewhere he can't clean away. He hisses and squirms when you ejaculate, like it stings.

You slide out, muscles burning and shaky, to admire your work. A twitch and you watch your seed spill out of him with disgust and intrigue. Two fingers shove back inside, determined to keep him filled just a moment longer. The unconscious shudder he gives is a subtle reminder he's still aroused.

Pink eyes shut. Everything about him is still, save for the squirmy organ between his legs. It feels a hint more uncomfortable now that you are mostly waded out of the fog, but you are not above leaning down and taking it in your hand. It's for research. A few strokes of his antenna and his tentacle in tandem produce the desired effect. You bring it to your lips. Sweet. Bitter. He tastes like sour cherries. 

It's quick work cleaning him up with an old napkin in your coat pocket and you redress him, getting a glimpse of an expressionless face when fitting his boot back on. Laying so sweetly, so innocent on the floor of his base, you can recognize his beauty in an abstract fashion. You'll never be able to see him the same way ever again. Like his flavor, that realisation is bittersweet.

Sitting with your thoughts is all you have left to do as you wait for him to wake up. That's what this procedure was for. You were supposed to keep watch, make sure no foul play occured while he was in dispose. Because for some baffling reason, he trusts you. 

Already planning for the next trial, you realize it will only get harder as time passes. He can't fall for the same attempts with the same syringe over and over. That could be a problem. You wonder how long it would take for you to break completely and experiment while he's aware...

A sharp inhale breaks up your thoughts and leaves you avoiding the figure, eyes pointed at shiny smooth ground you trace with a finger tip. 

Your hands feel clammy. Uncomfortable. You're sure it's not nearly as uncomfortable as he will feel on waking up. 


End file.
